


Five Times Mycroft Wanted to Kiss Lestrade

by second_skin



Series: Mystrade Chronicles (Fluff with Slightly Silly Mycroft) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Elevators, First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, Lestrade's Face Should Be Kissed, M/M, Mycroft Slept with Helen Mirren, Mycroft is a Voyeur, Mycroft-centric, Pre-Relationship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 01:51:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/375772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Who among us has not dreamed of being trapped in a lift (closet, mine shaft, igloo, submarine . . .) with Greg Lestrade? Fortunately for Mycroft Holmes, the engineers at New Scotland Yard have not maintained the electrical systems properly, so all his dreams are about to come true.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Mycroft Wanted to Kiss Lestrade

**Author's Note:**

> _Betaed by fengirl88._   
> 

Mycroft Holmes identified Gregory Lestrade as an asset immediately. From the first case when the D.I.'s path crossed Sherlock's and they crafted a troubled, but productive working partnership, Mycroft knew Lestrade could be of great service in continuing attempts to keep Sherlock both intellectually occupied and physically safe. Those two things were essential. Safety, for obvious reasons. And if Sherlock was not intellectually occupied . . . well, chaos reigned. And more than anything, Mycroft was dedicated to keeping chaos to a minimum. In South Asia, in the former Soviet Republics, and in his brother's life. So Mycroft began a series of regular meetings with DI Lestrade, with the goal of keeping Lestrade on his toes and keeping Mycroft informed about the minutiae of Sherlock's existence.

**1.**

Mycroft first called Lestrade to his decoy office, the dusty, book-lined, dark-panelled little cube he used to convince people he was simply a mid-level bureaucrat. He tried to draw Lestrade out, to learn a bit more of his story--things not fully available in the four-inch-thick record Mycroft had compiled, but Lestrade was stoic, professional, not forthcoming.

He was also, well, quite a handsome man, if one went in for that sort of thing. Which Mycroft usually did not.

He felt that at his age and station in life he should be involved with men of the highest intellectual or political calibre. So he tended towards disastrous relationships with boorish, self-aggrandizing windbags, who were also--shall we say--running a deficit in the good looks column. Not much fun these fellows, either. Quite the opposite of Lestrade, really.

During their first meeting, not only did Mycroft appreciate Lestrade's obvious physical charms, but Lestrade also made Mycroft laugh. At first that was disconcerting. Mycroft smiled often, especially in condescension or mock solicitude towards the diplomats and bureaucrats in his circle, but he rarely laughed out loud. But after only a few minutes with Lestrade, they were giggling together over tales of Sherlock's latest exploits, how he had insulted this or that witness, blown up chemicals in the bathtub of his own flat, and other nonsense.

When the meeting was over, Mycroft found he had quite an overpowering urge to kiss Lestrade. Mycroft wondered whether he could get away with the sort of pecks on both cheeks the French Foreign Minister was always planting on everyone in sight. Probably not, he thought, being British through and through, not some hot-blooded Gaul.

He settled for a firm handshake that may have lingered a few seconds too long.

 **2**.

The second time they met, again in the decoy office, Mycroft noticed that Lestrade had cut himself shaving and there was a tiny speck of blood still visible on his cheek, close to his ear. _It would be very pleasant to lick that spot,_ thought Mycroft, losing track of whatever it was they were supposed to be discussing about Sherlock. _Maybe lick other parts of Lestrade's face as well. Or just other parts of Lestrade, in general,_ Mycroft mused. He wondered how he might arrange to be licking Lestrade's face--and other parts in general--on a regular basis. That was a bit of a stumper, really.

To Lestrade, Mycroft was still just a meddling brother and government official, not really even a friend. And it had been so long since Mycroft had attempted to make a friend, that he was quite at a loss as to how to start.

Mycroft was used to making anything he wanted to happen simply happen, and doing so with very little effort and without wrinkling his £500 shirt. With a word to a colleague he could set in motion an invasion of almost any troublesome developing nation. With a two-minute phone call he could arrange the disappearance of a dictator or an American congressman. And with an untraceable text and a small fee to a computer hacker, he could arrange for Helen Mirren to win all the major acting awards this year.

 _Dear Helen_ , he sighed. When he was 18, she had taught him all he needed to know about female sexuality, and then some. Unfortunately, that just wasn't useful in the current situation. Still . . . good to keep up with old friends. Note to self: _Lunch with Helen soon_.

As Lestrade left Mycroft's office for the second time, Mycroft longed for the Inspector to stay. Not just for the possible kissing and licking, but for the talking, and the laughing, and just the pure pleasure of his company. But Mycroft knew that a relationship with Lestrade would not be as easy to craft as the simple coups and multi-lateral treaties of his workaday life.

_How exasperating._

**3.**

The third time Mycroft and Lestrade met to discuss Sherlock, Mycroft thought they should do something different, something special. So he invited Lestrade to an expensive restaurant, thinking that perhaps this could, with enough alcoholic lubrication, metamorphose into an actual date.

Mycroft saw immediately that Lestrade was uncomfortable in the posh atmosphere, with the mile-long wine list and waiters in black tie. And Mycroft made it so much worse by nervously prattling on and on about his vast knowledge of artisanal cheese and his trips to Prague and Indonesia. Mycroft knew he sounded unbearably pompous, just like those dullards he was trying to escape. He knew he was trying too hard, but just couldn't help himself. He thought about getting Lestrade drunk and then taking him home in the big black car and kissing him passionately. Yes, indeed, that seemed like an excellent plan . . . until Lestrade excused himself from the table to vomit up half a dozen oysters and a plate of paella. Mycroft then had to rush about to ensure that the restaurant would be closed down immediately and that the chef and his staff would be deported. And he had to get poor Lestrade to the A and E to be treated for food poisoning.

All the while Mycroft was thinking wistfully about how strange it was that even looking pale and bedraggled, Lestrade was still so alluring. So much so that Mycroft was tempted to sneak in a little snog on the way to hospital. Alas, his own sense of decorum and the glassy, semi-conscious look in the Inspector's eyes led Mycroft wisely to resist temptation.

**4.**

The fourth time they met, Mycroft went to Lestrade's office because the DI was under the usual rigid deadline for end-of-month paperwork, but Mycroft simply could not wait any longer.

Lestrade (clear-eyed and fully conscious this time) thought the whole thing was a bit daft, and said he saw no reason they couldn't just postpone their meeting for a few days. But the Inspector had no time to argue with the lunacy of another Holmes brother, so he finally ushered Mycroft into his office.

The meeting consisted of two sentences. Mycroft asking, "How is Sherlock?" And Lestrade saying, "He's fine, but very busy with this series of kidnappings we've got going."

Then Mycroft nodded and sat in a nondescript, bureaucratic brown chair in the corner, occasionally tapping his umbrella absent-mindedly on the floor. He watched Lestrade fill out paperwork. For four hours. Smiling and sighing. Ignoring texts and voicemail from three heads of state. And the Pope. And Helen.

And thinking all the while about k issing Lestrade.

**5.**

Mycroft was in a grand sulk when the fifth scheduled meeting rolled around. Lestrade had cancelled because of some hostage situation in the Underground. Mycroft couldn't believe such common criminal escapades were ruining his evening. And no matter whom he called or texted, no one seemed capable of ending the damnable standoff.

Mycroft made sure that Lestrade was nowhere near the line of fire, but was safely tucked away in the command center at the Yard. _Hmpf_.

Well, unlike his brother, Mycroft would put his attention toward some worthwhile pursuit while sulking. He wasn't about to just lounge on a sofa in a silk dressing gown. No, indeed. He would sit at his desk in his well-tailored flannel pyjamas.

And he would go through the surveillance footage he had asked Anthea to assemble. Footage of Lestrade. Mycroft watched Lestrade buy coffee, stroll near the Yard during a lunch break, get money from the cashpoint, go in and out of the shoe rep air shop and various and sundry other mundane events of the DI's life.

Mycroft imagined popping up behind Lestrade in a shop or in the coffee queue, and giving him a little hello kiss. He imagined running up to Lestrade in the rain and sharing his own precious brolly.

And when it was just too much for him, looking at the grainy footage of Lestrade's bedroom window, sometimes left wide open for the breeze, Mycroft tucked his hand into his pyjamas and imagined more intimate circumstances.

**And one time . . .**

The next time Lestrade and Mycroft met was in Lestrade's office late in the evening. When their little chat was over, Lestrade offered to ride down in the lift with Mycroft. And Mycroft offered Lestrade a ride home in the big black car. Sadly, Anthea would be there too, so there would probably be no snogging opportunity tonight.

As they made small talk in the lift, a sudden screeching noise and a rumble interrupted the ride. The lights flickered and dimmed. And the lift halted with a thud, between the sixth and seventh floors. Only the glow of a small red emergency light remained.

Mycroft considered texting Anthea, who was waiting down in the car, knowing that in less than five minutes she could have them freed. But that seemed like an unacceptable waste of state resources. And a waste of this very interesting situation.

Mycroft stepped closer to Lestrade, who had pulled out his own mobile to call in the problem to the building engineers.

"Usually takes about twenty minutes when this happens. Sorry, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft felt his trousers tighten a bit as Lestrade spoke so reassuringly in the semi-darkness, and as he gazed at the outline of Lestrade's form in the glowing red light.

"Yes. Well, that's quite all right. I'm sure it will be fixed in a reasonable time. Perhaps we could continue our conversation about Sherlock, or . . . something else. Perhaps we could talk about you, and . . ."

But Mycroft couldn't quite finish his sentence. He was experiencing a bit of an anxiety attack, thinking that this might truly be his chance at last.

Perhaps noting the way Mycroft was swaying and having difficulty catching his breath, Lestrade asked, "You alright, sir? Claustrophobia?"

Lestrade put his hand on Mycroft's hand, as he leaned against his umbrella, but that only caused Mycroft to gasp harder for breath.

"Are you okay, Mr. Holmes?" said Lestrade again, worry creeping into his gravelly baritone.

"Please, call me Mycroft."

"Okay, Mycroft," said Lestrade, putting on a solicitous, keep-the-poor-sod-calm tone. "Let's lie down here for a moment, shall we?"

 _Lie down? Oh, dear heavens. Can this truly be happening so fast?_ thought Mycroft.

"I think we'd best loosen up your shirt and undo your waistcoat too--maybe remove the tie and jacket all together. Wouldn't that make things more comfortable, sir?"

Mycroft could only nod, as he sank to the floor of the lift with Lestrade. Silently, he exclaimed, _Yes! Yes! . . . oh, wait. Why is he calling me sir? What things are going to be more comfortable? Is he really going to take me here and now?_ Mycroft wondered if he was ready to go the distance with a man as obviously virile and take-charge as Lestrade, but he couldn't wait to find out. He still couldn't speak, but eagerly nodded his assent to having some of his clothes removed by Lestrade.

"I think you'll want your legs elevated a bit, yes?"

 _What on earth does that mean? Damnation. Clearly I've not studied the most recent sexual techniques._ He had meant to read that copy of the _Kama Sutra_ on his bedside table, but just hadn't had the time, what with the North Koreans and the alien abductions and such. _I've never heard of elevating one's legs as a part of foreplay, but it doesn't seem wholly illogical. And how divine_ , thought Mycroft, _to have the detective's thick, manly fingers fussing about with my legs like that._ Mycroft wondered, _Shouldn't I do something now? Not just lie here like a whelk. Should I touch Lestrade? Maybe I'll try touching his arm--that is a reasonable move._

"Now breathe deeply, if you can, sir."

"You don't have to call me sir. Unless that's something that you . . . uh . . . find stimulating," said the Queen's most valuable civil servant. And now Mycroft laid a trembling hand on Lestrade's bicep, squeezing it gently.

"Oh, right, sorry again. Are you breathing, Mycroft?"

 _Oh good gracious!_ Lestrade had said his name again. And it was still glowing red all around them, and it was so very warm. Mycroft stifled a little whimper. Not just warm--it felt downright hot in the lift all of a sudden.

"Mycroft, you're sweating quite a lot now. That's a bad sign."

 _Oh no,_ Mycroft fretted. Now he was obviously doing something wrong, interrupting the buildup towards sexual congress he was yearning for--and just when things seemed to be progressing so well.

_Well, I can't stop myself from sweating, can I?_

Just then, more of Mycroft's prayers were answered.

"Now don't get upset, Mycroft. I'm going to undo your shirt and see if I can make you more comfortable. And I'm going to try to take your pulse."

 _Thank you, dear Lord in heaven!_ Mycroft nearly shouted with joy. _Why would Lestrade imagine I'd be upset, when I have been dreaming of his stubby fingers unbuttoning my shirt for months._ Mycroft could feel his trousers tightening further. _But what was that about taking my pulse?_ _Another strange new form of foreplay?_ Mycroft felt emboldened. He wanted to jump into this liaison with both feet.

"Shall I undo your shirt as well . . . um, Gregory?"

"Uh . . . No." Lestrade grinned and raised one eyebrow in amusement. "Not necessary, really. I'm not the one in need here. Let me attend to you."

 _Of course!_ thought Mycroft, his love for Lestrade growing stronger by the minute. _Of course, Lestrade . . . I mean, Gregory . . . senses how much I want this, need this. So he is going to 'attend to me‚' first, postponing his own sexual pleasure like any good lover._ Mycroft had read about this in some of those romance novels he had stashed underneath the _Kama Sutra._ How thrilling to be attended to with such generosity. There was surely no finer lover in the whole Commonwealth!

Now Mycroft felt on fire, from his elevated toes to his sweaty, sweaty brow. He couldn't wait any longer, so he summoned all the courage he had and reached an arm up to Lestrade, curling his fingers one by one around the nape of the DI's neck, enjoying to the fullest that first touch of silvery hair and warm skin. Then he pulled Lestrade down and raised his own head up off the jacket Lestrade had so carefully folded into a pillow beneath Mycroft's head. Lestrade leaned lower, eyes widening as if ready to listen to his patient's pleas.

_**A/N:** You may wonder, Dear Reader, whether Lestrade was still so dense he couldn't sense the raging flame of desire in Mycroft's eyes . . . and pants. You'll be relieved to know that Lestrade suddenly realized he was not being pulled in for a whispered request for medical assistance, but for a kiss. His pulse began racing and his heart began pounding. _

_What was the right reaction here, he wondered--the reaction that would ensure self-preservation? Given the power he knew Mycroft wielded, these were not unimportant concerns. This scenario had not occurred to Lestrade, so he was at a loss for a moment._

_Not that Mycroft wasn't an attractive man--certainly, he was. He was--- well, pretty adorable in his buttoned-up, repressed way, wasn't he? In other circumstances, maybe . . . But the man's exalted station, his relationship with Sherlock, his above-it-all demeanor and extensive knowledge of cheese--all that really was out of Lestrade's league and pretty damned intimidating._

_Lestrade considered whether he should draw back and take a moment to gather his thoughts, but for some reason he didn't. The envelope of darkness around them, the sense of time having stopped when the movement of the lift had stopped, their suspension alone between floors--it all made the whole situation feel like a dream sequence in a film._

_So Lestrade did what he always did in dreams when anyone unexpected (usually Bruce Willis or a very attractive criminal ) kissed him. He kissed back._

 

Mycroft held his breath and pressed dry, taut lips to Lestrade's soft, warm ones. Beads of nervous sweat were still gathering at Mycroft's temples, and his heart was pumping nearly out of his chest with the rush of adrenalin released the instant their lips touched.

Lestrade pulled back to shift to a more comfortable position, one hand cradling Mycroft's head and the other tenderly caressing his cheek. Lestrade lightly touched Mycroft's lips with his own again and set a few soft, moist kisses along his jawline and up toward his receding hairline. Then Lestrade traced his tongue ever so gently around Mycroft's left ear and pulled the earlobe into his mouth, letting his teeth graze the soft flesh as he let go.

Mycroft inhaled suddenly, but then couldn't seem to exhale, so Lestrade dragged his tongue down the side of Mycroft's neck and slipped his fingers just inside Mycroft's unbuttoned shirt, tickling the outline of a collarbone. Mycroft finally responded with a long, slow exhalation-- and a shudder of pure pleasure.

Lestrade turned back to Mycroft's lips and pressed a harder kiss there, sending a message to Mycroft (which took a few moments for the man interpret; he was so used to having others decode messages for him) that he should part his lips for this next kiss. When he did, Lestrade flicked his tongue across Mycroft's teeth and sucked at his bottom lip. Mycroft opened his mouth wider and let out a squeal of delight.

Mycroft made a quick mental note to send substantial cash gifts to the Yard's engineering maintenance crew for their shoddy work, which had made this episode possible.

And finally, Mycroft was becoming completely undone in mind and body (something he'd never allowed to happen in all his years as a government official).

Lestrade pulled Mycroft closer, pressing his tongue deeper into Mycroft's now very eager mouth. The DI ran his hand slowly down the front of the £500 shirt, pausing at Mycroft's waist--perhaps to consider the consequences. Was this tantamount to a national security breach?

For his part, Mycroft had lost all sense of normal propriety. He was gasping for breath between kisses and moaning rather loudly. Just the feel of Lestrade's tongue in his mouth, Lestrade's fingers in his hair--it was all beyond belief. And now the anticipation of where Lestrade's other hand might ultimately land had Mycroft on the verge of passing out.

 _Yes,_ thought Mycroft. _I want this. This. Now. I can make anything happen, anywhere in the world. Peace or war. Feast or famine. But all I want is for Gregory Lestrade's hand to touch my . . ._

"Oh, Gregory, yes!" whispered Mycroft into Lestrade's ear.

Suddenly a whirring sound and a jolt shook the lift. The glare of fluorescent lights and a jerky downward movement abruptly ended the brief encounter between Mycroft and Lestrade. Both men blinked and shook their heads, leaping to their feet to arrange their clothing in a presentable manner as quickly as possible. Mycroft's mobile beeped. Anthea was calling, wondering whether the driver should circle the block again.

"No, thank you," Mycroft smiled ruefully. "I'll be right out."

He looked at Lestrade and then looked down at his umbrella, blushing, afraid to ask the question, for fear of the answer.

But he didn't have to ask.

"Still on for that ride home, Mycroft? And maybe a cup of tea at my flat?"

"Absolutely, Detective Inspector. It will be my great, great pleasure."

 


End file.
